


Best Perspective

by Dredfulhapiness



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, MJ is a disaster gay but aren't we all?, ultimate frisbee au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25813672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dredfulhapiness/pseuds/Dredfulhapiness
Summary: MJ took her in in pieces: first the way she caught the disc with the grace of a ballerina. Then her sweatshirt and bedazzled jeans. The teal of her nails. The blue in her eyes to offset her purple headband.She’d scanned the park until her gaze caught on MJ’s, and her amused smile made MJ’s stomach drop straight to her feet.MJ thought,Aphrodite.She watched autumn leaves skim by the girl’s feet, and the wind tug at her bangs, and she imagined sea foam and ocean breeze.(Or: MJ starts to believe that love at first sight might be real)
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Gwen Stacy
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	Best Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to [Weasleychick32](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Sandwich/pseuds/Weasleychick32) for this prompt I had so much fun writing it! Please go check out her fics!

MJ isn’t insane for this, no matter what Peter says.

“Yes, you are,” Ned corrects, and she realizes she’s spoken aloud. “But it’s kind of charming.”

“If not a little creepy,” Peter mumbles around the half a hot dog he has shoved in his gob.

“There’s nothing creepy about finding a new hobby.” She pulls her sweater tighter around herself. “I happen to find ultimate very…” She looks out at the makeshift field (eight cones lined with precision). Someone is laying out for the disc, throwing mud up around them as they land. Someone whoops. “Exciting.”

Betty, the newest addition to their (now) several weekend long endeavor, snorts. “Uh huh. What’s the real reason we’re here?”

Peter turns to look at her, seemingly startled that Betty doesn’t already know about their debatably unsettling plan. “Because MJ saw a cute girl and all she knows is that she plays ultimate.”

“That’s _not_ how it happened!” MJ defends.

Well, it wasn’t entirely how it happened.

“You have ketchup on your face,” she tells him bitterly.

It wasn’t just that she was pretty. It was her _grace_ that caught MJ’s attention.

(The way she’d casually plucked from the air the Frisbee that had slipped from Peter’s hand, unfazed by the impending concussion, with nothing more than a quiet, “whoa!”

MJ took her in in pieces: first the way she caught the disc with the grace of a ballerina. Then her sweatshirt and bedazzled jeans. The teal of her nails. The blue in her eyes to offset her purple headband.

She’d scanned the park until her gaze caught on MJ’s, and her amused smile made MJ’s stomach drop straight to her feet.

MJ thought, _Aphrodite._

She watched autumn leaves skim by the girl’s feet, and the wind tug at her bangs, and she imagined sea foam and ocean breeze.

“This yours?” She asked, and all MJ could manage was a nod. She held up the disc, and MJ had a moment of dry-mouthed embarrassment over the cheesy, branded math pun printed on top. They’d gotten it from a career fair, but there was no way for MJ to say that in the short space of time between Gwen meeting Peter’s eye and throwing the disc back. A flick of her wrist at hip level.

(The throw is called a flick, MJ would learn that later in her desperate attempt to read every word ever published about Ultimate Frisbee.)

It bounced off his hand with a solid _whack_. He fumbled to pick it up, flapping the hand that it had hit. He clenched his jaw.

“Sorry!” Peter called, pressing his hand firmly to his hip. “I don’t have much practice.”

“You gotta look where you want it to go,” the girl said. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. MJ’s gaze followed her fingers. “Or else you’re gonna end up hitting someone!”

“You’ve got a hell of an arm.”

The girl winced. Her cheeks went pink. For a moment, MJ couldn’t breathe. “Sorry!”

She turned back to the path, already glancing down at her phone. MJ moved her mouth as if to call out to her, but no words came out; she managed a puff of awestruck air as she caught sight of the back of the girl’s sweatshirt.

The logo was a Frisbee disc with motion blur, the number 31 displayed in bold text. Above it, STACY.

MJ didn’t commit it to memory on purpose, but when she realized she had, she knew she was fucked.)

“So what _do_ we know then?” Betty presses.

Peter ticks the points off on his fingers. “She’s blonde.”

“She plays ultimate,” Ned seconds.

“She’s number thirty-one.”

“Her name’s Stacy.”

Betty shakes her head at MJ. “You got her name but not her number? Dude...”

“It was on her shirt,” MJ says. “I’m not hopeless.”

“Oh, you took this to new levels.” Betty sounds sympathetic. “Like, romcom levels.” Then, “not even which team?”

MJ fights the urge to throw back her head in despair. “No,” she admits quietly. “Her sweatshirt was blue, though.”

On the field, a chorus of _alright! That’s how it’s done!_ s rings out. MJ bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that they player’s foot was just just outside the confines of the end zone.

“Michelle,” Betty says, and MJ groans.

“I know. _I know.”_

She thinks about the riddle from middle school:

_A woman meets a man at her mother’s funeral and falls in love. That night, she kills her sister. Why?_

She’d gotten shit, once, for getting the answer right first guess. Knowing that murder would lead to a funeral where friends of the family would gather had seemed like common sense; an obvious sequence of events. She’d never considered that the logic would come in handy again.

“This is the last tournament I’m coming to,” she decides then and there. “If she’s not here, then it’s just…”

Not meant to be? A waste of time?

“It is what it is. I can’t keep spending my weekend almost getting nailed in the head by plastic plates.”

“Did she even say she plays Ultimate?”

Why did Betty have to be logical? Why couldn’t she be as blindly supportive as the boys?

“Well, no. But her shirt had a disc and a number on it and according to Google—“

“Oh boy.”

“—Frisbee golf jerseys don’t have numbers.”

“And you’re sure this isn’t an old shirt that she just happened to be wearing because…”

MJ has considered that, too. Pondered it over paragraphs explaining terms like ‘best perspective’ and ‘bidding.’

New York was a big city. Sports teams had high turnaround rates, even rec ones.

Instead of saying that, she says, “That’s why this is the last tournament.”

Someone else had seen that the the player’s foot had been out. He tries to throw it to another player who is (inarguably) in the end zone, but someone else knocks it to the ground.

“I’m grabbing a drink,” MJ says, because she’s suddenly far less interested in watching NYU get their asses kicked. “You guys want anything?”

Peter shook his head, mouth full with his last bit of hot dog.

“Nope, thanks,” Betty says. Ned is already re-engrossed in the game. MJ loves him for his commitment.

—

The concession stand is clearly only maybe-kinda-sorta event approved. It’s made up of a gateleg table and menus printed on computer paper and taped down in front of dollar store granola bars. Beach coolers and candy. Very comic sans-chic.

The line is fairly long nonetheless. There’s five people in front of MJ and more piling up behind her.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She’s standing half on grass, half on concrete. The person in front of her stretches her arms above her heads and arches her back. MJ steps away to avoid being head butted but still gets whacked on the head.

She pulls a face.

“Shoot!” The girl looks over her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, I thought I had more room.”

MJ opens her mouth to respond, then closes it again. the realization hits her like a ton of (stunning, distracting, panic-inducing) bricks. 

She’s wearing a jersey instead of a sweatshirt. The logo is the same, 31 in a disc, the name Stacy printed above it. When she pulls her collar away from where it’s sticking to the back of her neck, it warps the image.

MJ realizes far too late that she hasn’t planned what she’s supposed to say if she ever runs into the mysterious frisbee girl again. And then, she realizes that this _is_ creepy, actually. Undeniably. _A Quiet Place_ creepy. _A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night_ creepy.

_I saw your hobby and name on the back of your shirt and I’ve spent a month trying to find you because you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen._

There’s no sane way to say that.

_I didn’t believe in love at first sight but then I met you and I think I could make a case for it, actually, because the way you spin your phone on its pop socket makes my knees weak._

Absolutely not.

MJ shifts her weight again. Gnaws on her pinkie nail.

She considers silence as an option, marking this interaction down as some kind of confusing closure and putting an end to her foam-finger-toting, tailgating era. She’d seen her again, been so overwhelmed by the curve of her neck that she had to look at the negative space around her.

But she’d dragged Peter, Ned, and Betty out into the October chill to watch football lite, though, and it would all be pointless if she doesn’t at least say—

“Stacy!”

The head in front of her shoots up. She turns, eyes scanning for someone familiar, until she sees MJ.

“Uh.” Stacy cocks her head. Her expectant expression drops into confusion. “Hi?”

She tries to wipe away some of the hair plastered to her forehead. Half of her bangs have escaped the headband holding them back. There’s a sheen of sweat on her face, her cheeks are a deep red. Her game must have just ended.

MJ wonders if she won.

“It’s— it’s on the back of your shirt,” MJ explains lamely. “I didn’t, like, ask around or—“

_Get it together, Jones,_ she thinks, _you sound like Peter._

Stacy blinks, expression blank as the gears in her brain turn. Then, her face lights up. Her mouth forms a soft _O._

“Gwen,” she says around a laugh. ( _Bells,_ MJ thinks, _she laughs like bells)._ “Stacy is my last name.”

Yeah, that makes more sense. MJ is twenty years old, she should know how sports jerseys worked by now.

(She blames it on the fact that she’s been replaying the casual way in which Gwen had caught the frisbee, loose limbed and skilled. Like she’d been expecting it. Eyes bright with the thrill of a near-miss.)

“Michelle. Well, MJ— most people just call me MJ.”

“MJ,” Gwen repeats, and MJ has never considered herself a hopeless romantic but she understands all of those straight romance novels. Her name sounds lovely in Gwen’s mouth. She urges her brain not to take that train of thought any further. “I’d shake your hand but I’m pretty gross right now.”

“Yeah, kind of.”

If a sinkhole opened up under her, MJ would willingly fall in. Hell, if it opened beside her she’d _dive_ in. Anything to get her away from the shock that flashes in Gwen’s eyes.

_Oh my God, what’s wrong with me?_

“Can I buy you a gatorade?” MJ asks, because the pause is getting her nowhere. She doesn’t want the conversation to end, either. Not when she has the full attention of the girl she’s spent nearly a month looking for.

It’s blinding.

This interaction isn’t even over yet and MJ know’s it’s going to be addicting.

Gwen takes her in: fumbly lips and cardigan. MJ worries her bottom lip between her teeth. Gwen nods, delighted.

“Sure,” she says, and MJ’s heart stutters. “I’d like that. Orange?”

_“Orange?”_ MJ parrots back before she can filter the judgement out of her voice.

“It’s the best flavor,” Gwen says, defensive. There’s an edge to her voice that implies she’s had this argument before.

MJ thinks, _at least I know she’s not perfect._

They’re at the front of the line now. A kid wearing a windbreaker and a visor stares up at them.

“Can I get two Gatorades?” MJ asks. “Orange and… whatever you have that isn’t orange.”

Beside her, Gwen snorts.

“It’s _good,”_ she insists again as MJ hands the guy a five dollar bill.

MJ is about to double down on her established opinion when another voice altogether cuts her off.

“Gwen! Two minutes!”

Gwen looks over her shoulder, waves a hand at the guy who’d called out to her. “I’ll be there in a second, Har!”

She rolls her eyes, an action only MJ can see. It’s attitude just for her; a private performance. MJ could swoon. “Captains gotta… shake hands, or whatever.”

“You’re captain?”

_Don’t imagine her in Kiera Knightly’s pirate costume, don’t imagine her in Kiera Knightly’s pirate costume, don’t—_

“Co-captain. And you’re…?”

_Only here because you dazzle me; because youhave bewitched me, body and soul._

(What’s up today with her brain and Kiera Knightly?)

“A casual observer,” MJ says. She watches the guy working the folding-table concession stand hold out two bottles of gatorade: orange and blue.

MJ tries very, _very_ hard not to think about how they’re complimentary colors.

“Wait, here—“ Gwen grabs the bottles just before MJ can. Their hands brush, and it’s enough to make MJ pull away.

(It feels like electricity. Like pulling blankets from the dryer and flicking a light switch. MJ is pretty sure her hair is standing straight up, one of those plasma balls.)

Gwen grabs a sharpie from the table. She wipes the cap of the water bottle off with the bottom of her shirt. “You gotta write your name on bottles around here or they’ll go missing.”

She balances the orange gatorade under her arm while she writes on the other. The marker whines against the plastic.

“There.” Gwen holds the bottle from the cap when she hands it to MJ. She winks. “Now no one’ll take it.”

“Thanks.” MJ feels her knuckles go white around the bottle. Gwen is writing on her own bottle. Someone calls her name again.

It’s the same guy from before, red hair more tousled. His lips are set tightly together.

“Game’s starting!” He warns her, and she sighs dramatically, one hand thrown onto her hip. Her ponytail bounces, and MJ traces its parabola with her eyes.

“I gotta go,” she tells MJ. “Thanks for the gatorade.”

“Anytime.” MJ forces out, “I actually wanted to ask you—“

_“Gwen!_ C’mon!”

“He’s gonna have a conniption,” Gwen says as an apology. “I’ll see you around!”

She waves over her shoulder, and trees bow. MJ nods at her as she retreats, defeat settling heavy on her shoulders.

“Yeah,” she says to no one in particular, “see you around.”

She does the walk of shame back to the bleachers, the gatorade her only consolation prize. It feels like a participation trophy.

She wonders how she’s going to break the news.

_I saw her again and she casually used the word conniption and I’m doomed to never see her again because I didn’t get her number._

Or

_How many Gwen Stacys do you think there are in the city of New York and how creepy would it be if I called the number listed for all of them in Yellow Pages?_

She doesn’t actually have to say anything.

“You found her,” Ned says when he sees her.

MJ still feels the buzz under her skin from when their hands brushed and she speculates that she might be glowing. Maybe Gwen’s radiance is actually just radioactivity and she’s infected MJ by proximity.

MJ swears she’s never been so absorbed by the existence of another person. Utterly infatuated by a handful of words and a couple smiles; a Gatorade’s worth of a conversation.

“Her name is Gwen,” She says as she sits down. Peter ticks the knowledge off on another one of his fingers.

“Okay, _and?”_ Betty presses.

“She’s co-captain of her team.”

“And?” Peter nudges her foot with his own.

“She drinks orange Gatorade.”

“Gross.” Ned crinkles his nose.

“And?”

“Uh.” MJ’s mouth works like a shutter in the wind.

_And every time she laughs an angel gets its wings,_ she thinks.

“That’s it.”

“Tell me you didn’t chicken out,” Ned begs.

“We ran out of time. It’s different.”

“So this was a colossal failure. A month long colossal failure.”

MJ scowls at Peter. “Not Colossal. Only moderate.” Her apology tour, “Want my Gatorade?”

He accepts it, still eyeing her warily. She, generously, doesn’t remind him of the two months they spent hyping him up to ask Liz Allen out to dinner.

“So are we coming back next weekend?” Ned asks. “Because the new Elder Scrolls game is coming out on Friday and I’d really rather spend my Saturday playing it.”

MJ shakes her head. “We can’t keep doing this. Even I can’t keep convincing myself this isn’t weird.”

“As weird as writing your phone number on your drink? What’s someone gonna do? Call you if they find it?” Peter raises an eyebrow.

“What? I didn’t—“ MJ’s eyes go wide. “Wait, let me see that.”

She takes the bottle back and flips it over to look at the cap.

Gwen’s handwriting is something you’d see on chalkboards outside of cafes: blocky and concise. She’s written out her phone number. Or, at least, _a_ phone number, but MJ can’t see what possible reason she’d have to give her a fake number when she’d never asked for her real one.

“Holy shit,” she says, more to herself than the others.

An airhorn sounds. MJ pulls out her phone and sends out a text:

**Hey, it’s MJ with the gatorade.**

**Author's Note:**

> The chances of this becoming a series are so, ridiculously high. Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to come talk to me on Tumblr [@dredfulhapiness](https://dredfulhapiness.tumblr.com/) my asks are always open for fic reqs and to talk headcanons (or whatever else you wanna talk about). Also! kudos and comments on here are ALWAYS appreciated!


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